Origins
by GeorgyannWayson
Summary: Sherlock begins his own investigation into a series of attacks on farm animals in countryside; meanwhile, Mycroft begins on a road that takes him to the top *Part three of an AU series*
1. Origins: Chapter One

_Note: This is part of an AU series that tells the story of the Holmes family. This tale probably won't make much sense if you come into it blind, but you're welcome to stay nonetheless; I'll try to explain some things as I go along._

_**Also, please be warned**: this particular story deals with aspects of animal cruelty, which I do NOT condone in the slightest. While I don't go into extremely gruesome details about the crimes committed, some parts of this fanfic may come off as disturbing, so please proceed with caution. I will make sure and issue trigger warnings as chapters call for them.  
_

* * *

**Origins**

_**Chapter One**_

Kittens. There were kittens everywhere

Linda Holmes almost dropped the bag of groceries in her arm at the sight of the little balls of fur that seemed to be crawling out from every crevice. Some were climbing up the curtain by the window; some were walking all over the counters and some were merely playing with each other, seemingly oblivious to the family dog, Redbeard's, furious barking on the other side of the door that led to the backyard.

"Wha…" She couldn't even form a coherent sentence; she was absolutely mortified. Little animal paws were mucking up her spotless kitchen. She slowly placed the bag on a corner of the counter away from the kittens and looked around.

She knew exactly who was behind this madness.

She heard a noise and saw to her horror that a little grey kitten had decided to try and climb through the large bowl of dog food by the door. Some of the less active kittens suddenly noticed she was standing there and stared to mew and cry. At once, the rest of the kittens joined in, their soft cry crescendoing into a collective high pitched howl that made her flinch.

"_Sherlock_!" Linda roared, startling all of the kittens into a brief silence. "Come here right now, young man," she barked, taking up a kitten from where it was trying to climb in the fruit basket and placing it gently on the ground. "Oh, God," she whimpered, running to the sink to wash her hands. But she practically screamed and jumped back; there were even kittens in the sink! They stared at her and let out a joint lazy mew.

"They're in the sink." She took a deep breath to calm herself down. "They're just kittens, Linda," she told herself, trying her best to hold herself together. "Just kittens. You can clean up after kittens, you've had worse…"

"I can explain," Sherlock said from behind her, his fourteen-year-old voice slightly cracking.

"Oh, you're going to explain things, all right," Linda replied as she whirled around to face him. As Sherlock Holmes's mother, Linda was used to coming home and seeing a lot of crazy things. But nothing like this. Nothing_ ever_ like this. "Let's start with the face that there's about twenty kittens all over my kitchen-"

"Thirty-two, actually. Honestly, Mum, you call yourself a mathematician." At his mother's extremely angry glare, Sherlock slightly gulped and quieted down.

"Fine," she finally said through clenched teeth. "Thirty-two kittens. In my kitchen. Explain."

"Mr. Djardo asked me to find them."

"Who?"

"The pet shop owner in town," he clarified. Linda sighed.

"Why did you need to find them?"

"They went missing, of course," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Well, that part was obvious to me, Sherlock. But why did they go missing?"

"Dr. Hamburg."

"Who?" Linda asked again.

"A self-professed scientist. He kidnapped them from the shop last night because he needed something living to test his latest chemicals on."

"So, he chose...thirty-two kittens as test subjects?"

"Yes."

"What...how did you...it..."A beat of a moment passed as Linda tried to absorb Sherlock's explanation. But as much as she tried to reason her way through the whole ordeal, her mind still couldn't comprehend it._ Maybe I'm finally losing my mind,_ she thought to herself. Instead of spending mental energy to try and figure out why Fate chose her to deal with the insanity of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, she decided to just back off and question him instead.

"How in the world did he manage to get them all out without being seen?"And how did Sherlock manage to get these kittens back and here, her mind wondered

"Oh, that was easy-" Sherlock began, but he stopped talking at the door opening behind Linda and in the doorway stood his father, Chris Holmes.

"Hello, everyone-" Chris said cheerfully. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped at the mass of kittens that let out a joint cry to welcome him. Chris blinked and looked between his wife and son and the little creatures in front him. "You know," he said casually, trying his best to hide a smile. "I can always tell it's going to be a good time around our house when the kittens come to visit." Sherlock snorted back a laugh, and Linda sighed wearily. Of course, Chris had to try and make light of their youngest son's antics. It was usually his reaction to different situations that was Sherlock's saving grace in the end.

"You're dealing with the kittens," she ordered her husband, who nodded obediently. "You," she continued to Sherlock, "are going to call Mr. Djardo and tell him to come pick up his product immediately."

"And what are you going to do?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to go to my room to wait for them all to leave. And then I'm going to clean…everything," she finished with a pointed look to the kitten that was lying upside down and staring at her from Redbeard's food bowl. As Linda walked away to the stairs, Chris and Sherlock looked at each other.

"I'm surprised Mum doesn't have more grey hairs, what with her reactions to what I do," Sherlock said as he walked to the phone. _Her overreactions_, he corrected in his mind. Kittens in the kitchen was nothing compared to some of the other animals that he had brought into the Holmes household over the years.

"Oh, she gets plenty of them, believe me," Chris replied as he set to work with moving kittens down to the floor.

"And you pick them out before she can see them." Sherlock looked to his father, who shrugged lazily.

"It makes my life much simpler," he said with a smile. They shared a short laugh and Sherlock phoned Mr. Djardo, his pride swelling as the man's joyous cry rang in his ear at the news that his kittens were safe and sound. Chemistry was Sherlock's first love, and would always be so, but he found that as he took on more requests from the people around town to help them with solving different mysteries, it played to his strength of deductions. Without his older brother, Mycroft, around, Sherlock needed something to keep his constantly buzzing mind occupied.

And crime solving was a very acceptable alternative to being bored.

* * *

The lives of goldfish could be…somewhat entertaining.

Though Mycroft was quickly learning just how intelligent his little brother was compared to some of the sods that he went to class with at university. Thankfully, it would all be over soon and he would move on with his life. Mycroft was a term away from graduating at the top of his class, and was considering applying for a position within the British government via the recommendation of a professor. He had never really considered the prospect of working for the country, but the more he thought about it, the more he could see himself doing it.

_Plus, it would help with keeping a closer eye on Sherlock,_ he thought dryly.

As he lazily walked down the sidewalk in the village just outside the university, a shape in the shadows of an alleyway caught his attention and caused him to slow his pace. The shape seemed to know exactly how to place itself to remain obscure, and Mycroft inwardly scowled. Though he could read a person as if they were an open book, he was at a disadvantage with the shadow's place in the darkness.

"Hello, Mycroft," a voice said coolly. Mycroft stiffened at the formal greeting and felt himself stand a tad bit taller.

"Hello," he replied levelly. A couple of extremely tense seconds passed in which Mycroft played with the idea to turn around and walk away, but the voice spoke again.

"Has the time gone by that fast?" There was an extremely vague tone of…something…familiar in the voice's words. "Seems like only yesterday you were in nappies."

"Theoretically, that's impossible. I'm twenty-one now; obviously I'm well past nappie age." Why those words came out instead of the typical 'who are you' and 'what do you want' was beyond Mycroft, He had meant to insult and belittle the shadow's (possible) intelligence, but he sensed that whoever was there was immensely amused by his lack of an intelligent response.

"Yes, I suppose it is." A pause. "So a position in the British government is your goal, hmm?" Mycroft blinked in surprise.

"How did you know-"

"You would fit their criteria to the letter," the voice interrupted. "They're always looking for people with a commanding sense of authority like yours. And also, your father told me about it," it added as an afterthought.

"My father?" Now Mycroft was suspicious. "You know my father?"

"Very well, actually." The shadow began to move toward the light with sure, strong steps. _Click. Click. Click._ Each click of the shadow's heels echoed all around the alleyway. As the light from the street lamp spilled onto the shadow's face, Mycroft let out a somewhat relieved, but annoyed sigh.

"It's been a long time." A smile met his statement.

"Too long."


	2. Origins: Chapter Two

**Origins**

**Chapter Two**

"You know, the drama with disguising yourself in the shadows wasn't necessary."

"I know, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity." Mycroft scowled at his Uncle Rudy's sly grin. They sat at a corner table in the village's only small café, the light above their table buzzing and flickering occasionally. "At any rate, I wanted to make sure that I got your attention," he continued as he flipped a lock of chocolate brown hair over his shoulder.

"Your outfit would've done that all by itself," Mycroft said. Uncle Rudy sighed and looked down at the dark blue bodice dress that he was donning with a set of shiny black heels.

"This color just doesn't suit me," he complained through a pout. Despite his best efforts to remain serious, Mycroft briefly smiled at the surprised reaction of a couple a few tables down from them. Quickly, they went back to their food, occasionally shooting wide-eyed looks at the back of Uncle Rudy's head.

"So, what brings you all the way from Cornwall?"

Uncle Rudy folded his arms. "Now, how did you know that I came from Cornwall?" Of course he had to see how the famous deductions were done. Mycroft rolled his eyes; to the family, it was more of a circus act than anything else. Pathetic.

"You've been in an area with a lot of sun, recently. You have faint tan lines on your shoulders from where you've spent time outside, but your occupation is most active during the night. I'm venturing that there were events and places in the area that you stayed in that were only active during the day. Cornwall is a tourist attraction." Mycroft sniffed the air.

"There's also the fact that the smell of the sea isn't exactly hard to hide. Salt is a preserve; it dries things out, so it would make sense that the locks of your wig would be stiff if you've been in the ocean recently. Also, you've lost weight. That dress doesn't fit you like it once did; the seams are wrinkled and faded from the amount of stretching they endured. An influx of vitamin B12 would cause your metabolism to increase, which is interesting because you don't eat meat if you can help it." He glanced to the bowl of greens on Uncle Rudy's plate. "However, you will eat fish, and Cornwall is an ideal place for getting your fill of seafood. Therefore, you came from Cornwall."

A grin spread across Uncle Rudy's face. "Chris wasn't joking when he said you were observant. And you would be right, I came from Cornwall."

"Arrived on the first train into the station, too."

"It shows, doesn't it?" You would've had to have been an idiot to not notice the faint purple moons under Uncle Rudy's eyes. "I'm not a morning person," he continued. "And trains aren't exactly ideal sleeping places. But I had some clients in this area that I needed to see, and I thought I would just drop by."

Mycroft scoffed. "You're hardly the type to just 'drop by'."

Rudy fell silent, running his finger all around the rim of his teacup. His lifestyle of a cross-dresser had made him the black sheep of the family, and it wasn't a secret to the entire Holmes clan that he preferred to keep his distance from them to avoid the whispers and stares.

"True," he finally agreed. "But I made an exception in this case."

"You made an exception for me?" Mycroft's eyebrow rose. "Whatever for?"

"You know, you're at the age where you need guidance about your future," Uncle Rudy explained simply after a few moments of silence. "I have connections that could help you get to where you're going, if you want them. I suppose you could say that in a way, I could…be a mentor to you."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to consider my other options first."

"Of course. I didn't expect any less from you," Uncle Rudy said with a smile, pulling some notes from what Mycroft assumed was the less-than-impressive bra underneath the dress and setting them down. "Shall we go, then?" They got up and left the café to walk down the sidewalk. As people stopped and stared all around them, Mycroft couldn't help but fidget at the uncomfortable stares and points.

"How do you do it?" He asked shooting an elderly woman that was openly gaping at them a very harsh glare.

"What?"

"Ignore them."

Uncle Rudy lazily looked to a couple of teenage boys that were jeering and whistling at them. "Oh, them," he said with a sense of airy boredom. "You get used to the attention after a while." As they walked by an alleyway, a hiss from the darkness caused Uncle Rudy to yank Mycroft to a sudden stop. As he opened his mouth to complain, a figure emerged from the shadows, dressed in a bright red gown, his blonde wig catching the light of the lamppost.

"Rochelle," the mysterious person said. Mycroft shook his head at the greeting; it was so strange to hear such a deep voice coming from someone dressed as a woman.

"Miracle," Uncle Rudy said happily. "Haven't seen you around in ages, old friend."

"Been busy," Miracle replied with a curious look to Mycroft. "Who's this?"

"Oh, this is my nephew." Uncle Rudy clapped his nephew's shoulder. "My youngest brother's oldest."

"Ah." Miracle nodded. "Nice to meet ya."

"Same," Mycroft replied dumbly, clearing his throat to try to snap himself out of his surprised stare.

"Oi, speaking of your brothers, I got some news for ya," Miracle said. " 'eard through the grapevine that Henry and Aaron got themselves that shop they had their eye on."

"Did they, now?" Uncle Rudy sounded deeply pleased. "Looks like my talk with that pesky landlord made him change his mind after all."

"More like your threat," Miracle replied through a chuckle. "You always get what you want, don't ya, Rochelle?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say 'always'." Uncle Rudy waved his hand in dismissal. "But a good deal of the time, I do. It certainly helps when you know some deep dark secrets to hold over their heads."

"Righ'. Well, I bette' be off. Good to see ya, Rochelle and nice to meet ya," he finished with a smile to Mycroft, who shyly smiled back. As Miracle turned around to walk back down the alleyway and into the shadows, Mycroft looked to Uncle Rudy.

"So that's how you've been keeping tabs on us." It all made sense then; how Uncle Rudy knew exactly when to send birthday gifts; how he knew about each child that was born into the family so he could call and wish the parents all the best and how he knew exactly what was happening with everyone without ever exchanging a word. He shrugged.

"It's better this way," he said with an slight air of sadness. "Your father is always trying to convince me to try and make an effort to be around more, but…I just can't bring myself to do it, no matter how hard I try." Silently, they started to walk again and as they traveled, Mycroft pondered about his uncle's very untraditional way of looking after his family. _Maybe_, he thought to himself, _that would be a way to look after Sherlock as he gets older…_

_Maybe. Just maybe._

* * *

The cracks and pops of meaty hands echoed across the small space in which all of the boys stood. Sherlock was assessing every weak point that he could on his opponent, barely paying any mind to the soft murmurings that were happening around him. _Not many_, he thought to himself, his jaw clenching in frustration. _Damn._

"Well, c'mon then, 'Olmes," Lile taunted, smiling at the group behind him that snickered. "I'm waiting."

"So am I," Sherlock shot back. "You're the one that wanted to meet me here, I thought I could count on you to make the first move."

Lile's gang looked to their leader for his next move; he sniggered. "Oh, is wittle Sherlock 'Olmes scared? Now dat big brawda isn't hewe, you so scared?" Griffin made a pouty face. "Wittle Sherlock 'Olmes can't stick up for himself; he's always got to have Mikey do his dirty work for him."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and with strong steps, he made his way forward and he and Lile met in the middle of their makeshift arena. Slowly, like two lions about to engage in a fight, they began to circle each other.

_Clumsy on his feet_, Sherlock noted distantly as Lile lightly struggled to keep in time with his pace. Stay below the waist, focus on attacks around the legs and groin-

Lile lunged toward Sherlock to grab him, but missed as Sherlock neatly and speedily dodged out of his way. The gang of boys roared various curses and jeers at their leader as he spun around to face Sherlock again, red in the face and huffing like mad. He put up his fists.

"Whasa matter, 'Olmes?! Chicken?!" He barked. Sherlock smirked; oh, if he thought that was actually going to 'hurt his feelings', he was sorely mistaken.

"No," Sherlock replied coolly. "I'm just waiting for you to exhaust yourself in your attempts to show me up. It shouldn't take you long; you're like a hamster on a wheel at any rate." And that was giving Lile more credit than he deserved.

"You little twit," Lile growled. Somewhere close to them, a loud noise sounded and like a fool, Sherlock turned toward the sound. He hissed a curse as a fist connected with the side of the head. How he had managed to stay on his feet from the force of the blow, he didn't know, but with a seething rage, he blinked through the white and black spots speckling across his vision and charged at Lile. His fist connected with something soft and squishy –probably the big bully's stomach- and he felt his neck suddenly encased by a thick arm. It began to squeeze around his windpipe and he fought to get out of its grasp.

"Is this all you got, 'Olmes?" Lile hissed in his ear as his grip tightened. Sherlock struggled harder against the lack of oxygen, his body beginning to grow weak. _I'm about to pass out_. With as much force as he could, he stepped on Lile's toes and felt bones pop beneath his heel.

"Jesus!" Lile suddenly let Sherlock go and he fell forward to the ground, gasping and coughing for breath. Behind him, the bully howled and cried like a baby monkey, curse words raining from his lips in between cries. "You're going to pay for that, 'Olmes!" Sherlock tried to get away, but Lile grabbed his ankle and brutally dragged back, turning him over to lie flat on his back.

The first punch hurt the most, and he almost passed out from the pain in his nose, but a shake made him open his eyes. The snarling face of Lile hovered over him.

"This is for thinking you're smarter than everyone else." Sherlock saw stars in his left eye from the force of the punch. "And this is for being such an arrogant git." The other eye went dark as well. "And this is for being bloody." His mouth ached from a punch. "Sherlock." Punch. "'Olmes." The world suddenly sounded muffled through the haze of pain radiating through Sherlock's body. Do something, you idiot! His mind screamed.

With every bit of strength he had left, he managed to flip them over and blindly reached to grab Lile around his thick neck. He squeezed as hard as he could, breathing loudly through his mouth. Damn Mycroft's advice with trying to outwit them; he was going to kill that son of a…

"Boys, boys, boys!" A mousy voice called out as he ran toward them. "Stop this right now!" A sudden jerk brought Sherlock to his feet and the face of one of the French teachers, Mousier Zale, appeared in front of him. "Good gracious," he said, a look of horror crossing his features at the bruised and battered face of the young Sherlock. From behind him, Lile cursed as he was yanked up from the ground.

"Boys, follow me." Mousier Zale turned around to walk back up the hill toward the school, the group of boys following him.

* * *

His nose was broken at a forty-five degree angle. Perhaps Lile was smarter than he looked after all.

Sherlock held an icepack to his broken nose and tried his best to keep the slit openings of his eyes on the shiny forehead of Principal Hardin, who was wrapped up in his sweeping lecture about 'fighting doesn't solve your problems, young man' and 'I'm going to have to call your parents and talk to them about this'. How he could ignore the grotesque injuries of the young man sitting across from him and lecture him about proper ways to sort out your differences, Sherlock couldn't understand. At least Lile didn't take any of his teeth; thankfully, his last punch wasn't as strong as the first three, so there was at least that positive.

"So you've called my father already?" Sherlock suddenly asked, cutting across Principal Hardin.

"Your father is in a meeting, according to his secretary, so I had to call your mother."

"My mother?" Sherlock repeated, trying to sound as though he wasn't bothered by that tidbit of information, but in reality, he found himself slightly cowering. Mummy wasn't exactly the easiest parent to talk out of a punishment. At least with Daddy, there was some leeway. Great.

As Principle Hardin opened his mouth to speak, footsteps into his office stopped him.

"Ah, Mrs. Holmes," he said brightly. Sherlock shrank down in his seat as he felt the back of his head burn at her searing gaze.

"Hello, Principal Hardin," Linda replied politely, her graceful and elegant tone a cutting contrast to her normal motherly chatter. Which meant only one thing: she was mad as hell.

"Please, have a seat-"

"I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather not," she cut in coldly. Sherlock winced; oh, she was past the point of 'mad as hell'. I'm never going to hear the end of it, now, he thought to himself grimly. "I'm rather busy today, so if you don't mind, I would like expedite this little talk. How many detentions does he need to serve for this one?"

Principal Hardin cleared his throat and thought for a second before answering her.

"Well, Mrs. Holmes, I'm sorry to say that I'm past the point of giving Sherlock detention." The silence in the room grew thick with tension. "I'm going to have to issue a five day suspension for his behavior. He's had too many incidences." Sherlock heard Linda take a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"All right," she finally said tightly after a few seconds.

"Sherlock can return to school on Monday."

"And what about the other boy? What's happening to him?"

"I don't think I'm at liberty to discuss that-"

"If Sherlock is being punished for something he didn't start, I surely hope that the other boy is being dealt something worse." Now that was a surprising reaction from Linda. Usually, she was extremely polite in dealing with school officials.

Principal Hardin must've picked up the undercurrent of hostility, because he cleared his throat. "Mrs. Holmes, I can assure you that Mr. Lile will be dealt with properly."

" 'Will be'? So he starts the fight and you're dealing punishment to the victim first? Forgive me, Principal Hardin, but I don't agree with how you're handling matters."

Sherlock smirked from behind the ice pack at the bite of Linda's voice.

"That's not up for you to decide, Mrs. Holmes. I'm only asking that you be responsible for your child, as will I ask of Mr. Lile's parents." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Holmes, you are herby suspended until Monday." Sherlock nodded. "At any rate, I better get on with Mr. Lile's punishment. Mrs. Holmes, you're free to take him home."

"Come, Sherlock," Linda said curtly. The boy quietly got up from his chair and followed his mother out of the office, trying his best to see through the slits that his swollen eyes could manage. They walked in complete and utter silence until they got to the car.

"Mum," Sherlock said as after the car doors shut. "I didn't start it-"

"I know you didn't," Linda interrupted gently, turning to look at her son in sympathy. "Now, that doesn't make your reaction right or justified, but you were defending yourself all the same." She reached out and stroked his hair. "My poor darling, you must in so much pain." Sherlock slightly relaxed as her fingers ran through his hair to massage his scalp.

"I think my pain threshold has increased tenfold," he replied.

"I'm sure it has." She pulled her hand away and started the car to drive home. Thankfully, the evening passed without talk of a punishment, and with a full belly and a nose brace on his face, Linda insisted that Sherlock get some rest. She followed him into the bedroom and hovered around him as he made himself comfortable. Redbeard jumped up on the bed and took his usual sleeping position beside his master.

"Can you do what you were doing in the car?" Sherlock asked as she handed him some painkillers and water. She tucked the blanket around him.

"Do what?"

"Pet my hair."

She stopped and smiled, endeared by the fact that even at an age of independence, Sherlock still wanted Mummy's comfort. Sitting down by his head, she gently massaged his scalp. When she was sure that he was in a deep sleep, she kissed his forehead and left, quietly shutting the door behind her.

It was late before Chris got home from work. He walked into the master bedroom and Linda looked up from her book to see him standing by the bed with a bouquet of red roses in his hand, his hazel eyes twinkling with delight.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said. She smiled.

"Who are those for?" she teased with a soft laugh.

"I bought them for my wife." He winked. "But I think you need them more."

She took the bouquet from his hand. "They're beautiful. Thank you, darling." They exchanged a tender kiss that made Linda's stomach flutter.

"The school tried to call me today. Was everything all right?" Chris asked as he sat down beside her.

"Sherlock got into a fight." She sighed and ran a hand through the mess of blonde curls on her head. "His face is all bashed up and he's been suspended." Her husband looked rather thoughtful at the news.

"How long has he suspended for?"

"Five days. I sure hope that Lile boy gets something worse. If I found out he didn't-" she trailed off at Chris's quiet chuckle.

"Darling, relax, I'm sure everything was sorted out," he said.

"I doubt that, but we'll see. I don't have a clue what he's going to do with all of this free time. You know him; he gets bored. Maybe he'll find some poor animal carcass to conduct studies on or something." Then I'll have to clean up the mess, she thought to herself dully. Per usual.

"Maybe we should send him to stay with Mum for a few of those days just to get him out of the house," Chris suggested with a shrug after a brief moment of silence. Linda paused.

"I highly doubt that Sherlock would enjoy staying with your mother for any period of time." Truth be told, Nana Ruth wasn't exactly the easiest woman to be around. Linda was sure that Sherlock would rather be confined to Alcatraz than to stay in Chris's childhood home in the countryside with who he considered was the most unbearable family member of them all.

"It's just a suggestion," Chris said, taking the roses from her hand to put on the bedside table. "But we can talk about this tomorrow. For now..." He leaned toward her and gently moved her head to the side to kiss her neck. "You sound as though you've had a stressful day."

"I have…" Linda closed her eyes and softly groaned at the attention; even after twenty-six years of marriage, she could still melt at Chris's touch like a candle under a flame. She ran her hands up his arms as his hand cupped the back of her head to keep her upright. He softly whispered in her ear and she bit her lip at the sweet nothings.

_My God, I love this man._

She captured his lips in a deep kiss, and she felt him push her back to lie down on the bed, the roses at the bedside temporarily forgotten"


	3. Origins: Chapter Three

**Origins**

**Chapter Three**

"What do you mean that I'm going to stay with Nana?!"

Though Sherlock's jaw hurt like hell after his outraged shout at the breakfast table, his level of annoyance with his parents' announcement was two-fold. He didn't understand; it wasn't even his fault that he got the snot beaten out of him, and now they were just going to just casually send him off to stay with the most annoying woman on the entire planet?

What in God's name was their logic behind that decision?

"It's just for a few days, Sherlock," Chris said calmly from behind the morning paper that he was scanning. "You haven't seen Nana in months, and she would love to have you stay with her."

So this brilliant plan belonged to none other than Daddy. _Of course._

"But-but I don't want to! Mum!" Sherlock looked to Linda for help, but to his dismay, she just shrugged.

"Your father's right, Sherlock."

"But-!"

"We've already called Nana and told her that you were coming," Linda continued without skipping a beat. "It's better than staying here at any rate; I'm sure you'll find plenty of insects and animals to observe and study while you're out there."

Which was at least an upside to visiting Nana Holmes. She lived on the outskirts of Flitwick, a small farming town a couple hours out of the city.

But Linda's reassurance still didn't make Sherlock any less irritated.

"But Nana is boring!"

His parents looked to each other, both of them obviously expecting that argument.

"She's a grandmother, Sherlock," Linda said as she took a seat at the table. "Grandmothers are supposed to be a little boring."

Sherlock looked between them furiously, his mind racing to come up with a rebuttal. "But I'm recovering from a very traumatic experience."

"Oh, please. That didn't stop you from going out to investigate the rumor of the haunted hotel the next town over last summer."

"And not to mention, you almost broke your other arm solving the mystery," Chris finished as he folded the newspaper. Sherlock opened his mouth to further plead his case, but looking at his parents closely, he could tell that it was going to be no use. They had made up their minds, and there was no changing them.

"You didn't even ask me if I wanted to go," he finally grumbled, stabbing at his pile of eggs with his fork.

"Because we knew you would get on like this." With a sweep, Linda got up from the table. "Now, finish your breakfast; we're leaving in an hour."

With more force than what was probably necessary, Sherlock stuffed the rest of the scrambled eggs in his mouth and slunk out of his chair to make his way toward his bedroom. He felt like he was dragging thousand pound weighs on each ankle with the amount of dread that he was feeling. It wasn't fair; they hadn't even offered him a choice with his punishment! He would've rather scrubbed all of the toilets in the house with his toothbrush than be sent away to Nana's house. Where the hell did they get off just making decisions about what he was to do with his time without telling him?

He brutally slammed his bedroom door behind him. Though his parents understood very little in general, they could at least understand that.

* * *

The tension in the car could've choked them all.

Sherlock watched as the countryside passed by in a blur, the rate of houses slowly declining to where there was broad land as far as the eye could see, an occasional farmhouse popping up on the horizon. They had been driving for at least an hour, and he had yet to even try and accept, much less like the fact that he was staying with Nana Holmes for five days.

He could only imagine the useless nonsense that she would subject him to throughout his stay: the games of hide-and-seek and tag, the hours of helping her knit her latest quilt, and the amount of cookies that she would make him help her bake…

He hit his head against the car window.

"Sherlock" Linda sounded as though she was trying her absolute hardest to keep a level tone of voice.

"Just killing a bug," he said sullenly. He could feel his parents share a joint eye roll at his lame excuse and they continued to drive in silence. After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock felt them drive the familiar curvy road to the house and the car began its climb up the hillside to the old farmhouse where Chris had grown up.

"Just seeing this place brings back memories," Linda murmured as she took her husband's hand. He tenderly squeezed her fingers as he parked the car on the gravel pad in front of the old, white farmhouse.

"All right," Chris said cheerfully. "We're here."

"Yes, that's obvious, Dad." Sherlock pursed his lips at his mother's noise of warning, and he threw open the car door, not even bothering to grab the overnight bag that was sitting next to him. _They were the ones that dragged me here; let them get it._ The wind chimes gently tinkered as a light breeze blew through, and Linda walked up next to him.

"See? It's so serene." She took a deep breath. "Just what you need."

Sherlock stared at her profile in disbelief.

"Forgot your bag back there, son," Chris said as he walked up to them, Sherlock's bag on his shoulder. "Come on, I bet Nana is just jumping with excitement." He led the way, Sherlock and Linda following close behind as they walked the old wooden stairs of the porch. "Mum, we're here!" Chris called as he opened the screen door.

"Oh, already?" Ruth came out from the kitchen, her wild unruly hair in a messy bun and flour covering her apron, hands and lower arms. "I wasn't expecting you all for another hour!" Without thought for her state, she pulled her youngest son in a hug and sloppily kissed his cheek. "Oh, and there's my darling Sherly!" She beamed and held out her arms. "Come and give your Nana a big hug!"

Linda nudged Sherlock's back and he stiffly walked to Ruth, almost cringing at her tight hug and girlish squeal of delight.

"Oh, we're going to have such a good time together," she said, petting his hair with her flour-covered hand. "I'm so glad you're here, Sherly; I've got so many cookies I've got to bake for the upcoming bake sale in town. I'll need my little chemist to help me measure out all the ingredients! Doesn't that sound fun?"

Sherlock wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"Exhilarating." He pulled out of Ruth's embrace and turned around to take his bag from Chris, shooting both of his parents a horrible glare.

"Won't you stay for tea?" Ruth asked, reaching to pull Linda into a hug and plant a kiss on her cheek.

"No, no, we've got to get back. Chris has some work to catch up on at the office, and I've got some shopping that I need to do."

"Oh, all right then. Sherly, go put your bag away; we've got to get started on those cookies!" Ruth walked away and back into the kitchen, starting to gather ingredients and utensils together.

Sherlock sighed. "I hate you both so much right now."

"Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. We'll be back to get you in a few days." Chris ruffled his son's hair. "Don't cause too much trouble, yeah?" he said with a wink. Sherlock sent him a scowl that he hoped would set him on fire. Linda walked up and kissed his cheek.

"Try to be patient with Nana," she said softly in his ear. "I know she can be a handful-"

"That's an understatement."

"But she's still your nana." She pat his cheek as she pulled back. "We'll call and check on you later. Try to have a good time?" With a final wave, Chris and Linda walked out of the house and Sherlock watched as they climbed back into the car and drove away down the hillside.

"Sherly, come now!" Ruth hollered from the kitchen. "I've got everything ready for our baking extravaganza!"

_I'm going to die here_. With a deep, pained sigh, Sherlock walked down the hall and into his father's old bedroom and threw his bag against the wall, flopping down on the bed to huddle into the fetal position. In the silence of the bedroom, he felt his initial rage at the situation disappearing and in its place came the sense of pure dread that he felt back at home. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere, where absolutely nothing of consequence or excitement happened and forced to play chef and quilt-maker to his loud and boisterous grandmother.

_Try to have some fun_, _Mum said. Easy for her to say_. He scoffed and rolled off the bed to go into the battle of the kitchen. Like having fun was even an option.

* * *

Mycroft knew that Uncle Rudy had connections; what he didn't know was just how fast those connections could work when put to use. A few days after their meeting in town, Mycroft had received a call from an official government employee and was scheduled for an interview of sorts. As far as he could tell, he wasn't sure what his job –if he even got it- was even going to entail, but a part of him couldn't help but be excited all the same.

A position in the British government sounded like the perfect career for his personality and lifestyle. And not to mention, if he got the right job, he could really use it to his advantage and maybe even keep a weather eye on his rambunctious little brother at the same time.

With a smile, he got up and went to his wardrobe to dig around for his one and only suit. He didn't know what exactly was going to happen in the interview, but if Uncle Rudy's words held any weight at all, he had a feeling that he would be exactly what they were looking for in an employee.


	4. Origins: Chapter Four

_**Do be warned**: This chapter contains some scenes that may be disturbing. Please proceed with caution_.

* * *

**Origins**

**Chapter Four**

"Ruth, you in?" A voice called as the screen door squeaked open the next morning.

"In the kitchen, Walter." Ruth was by the sink, cleaning the dishes from breakfast. Sherlock's head jerked up mid-droop down to his chest. Even though it was only a little past six in the morning, he had technically been up all night; by the time he had been ready to go to sleep, it was almost five, and Ruth had barged into his room about thirty minutes later to rouse him up for breakfast. The conclusion was loud and clear: her cruelty knew no bounds.

He distantly noted that Walter's footsteps sounded rather urgent and shook his head to clear his somewhat fuzzy mind. But as he fought to wrangle his senses, a shatter of glass rang out in the small kitchen. He looked up to see Ruth's face draining of its normal ruddy color and he followed her gaze to the man that was standing at the kitchen doorway. It took a lot of effort on his part, but he managed to hide his temporary shock.

Walter was a typical farmer for those parts- tall in stature, with large hands and feet and hair with specks of grey and white scattered about. But his normality was being overpowered by the sight of his shirt, arms and hands that were completely covered in blood –_rather fresh blood,_ Sherlock thought as the heavy smell of metal hit his nose.

"Oh, good gracious, Walter, what happened?" Ruth asked, slowly covering her nose and mouth with her soapy gloved hand.

"Two of my prize cows dead, Ruth," Walter said shakily, taking a deep breath. "I found 'em this mornin' by the fence as I was goin' to milk 'em. Slashed right across the stomach, they was. Right straight across." A very pregnant pause passed in which Sherlock's eyes scanned the farmer's countenance, observations hitting him faster than he could catalogue then.

_Diabetic, history of anxiety and depression on mother's –no- father's side, third generation farmer-_

"Sherlock." Ruth swallowed and took off her gloves. "Come and make a cuppa for Walter, won't you love?"

With a silent nod, he got to his feet and made his way to the stove to put the kettle to boil, the soft sounds of Ruth gently ushering Walter to an empty chair peppering the air. He moved around slowly, occasionally making noises and clatters to give off an air of concentration on his given task.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Ruth." Walter's voice cracked. "They were two of me best cows. I got the most money for their milk and now-" He made a noise of distress and Ruth shushed him. Sherlock brought the cup of tea to the table and held it out to Walter, who almost dropped the cup from the strength of his trembling.

"They're getting worse," Walter whispered as he took a sip of the tea. Sherlock looked to Ruth to gauge her reaction; she pursed her lips so tight that they were slowly turning white against her face.

"No, don't say that, dear-"

"Did you hear about the Grearson's pony? Killed in the exact same way not even a few days ago! And the O'Flanell's pigs; all eight of 'em slashed! This mad man is running around killing all of the livestock. Killing our very living, Ruth! He's been doing it and no one's doing a thing about it! Not a bloody thing!

Sherlock reached out and took the teacup from Walter's hand before it feel to the floor in a shatter. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn that Ruth was an inch away from fainting at the old farmer's hysterical rants.

"Walter," Ruth said levelly. "I'm sure that the police are looking into this-" she frowned at Walter's bark of a laugh. "You have to remember, they're in charge of two towns-"

"This has been happening for months, and they have yet to get off their arses and do anything! What is it going to take to make them realize how serious this is?!"

Though Sherlock knew that Walter had a valid argument, he obviously didn't understand the crime map of the area (_no one ever thinks of that_, Sherlock thought to himself with a tired sigh). Theft was probably the worse crime that the small town police force had dealt with. He highly doubted that they knew exactly how to handle someone that was going around and killing animals.

Walter sighed and looked down to himself. "I better get back and get cleaned up before the missus sees me. And I'm going to make a call to the station. Maybe this will finally get them to move." Walter stood to his feet. "Thanks for the cuppa, Ruth. Oi, lock your doors from now on, eh?" With a nod to Sherlock, he left the kitchen and the screen door opened and shut with his departure.

The silence after he left was deafening. Ruth sighed and looked down to her lap.

"You know, in all of the years that I've lived in this house, I've never once had to think about locking the front door." She stood to her feet. "But this isn't the same Flitwick that I once knew…not at all." She looked to the blood that Walter had left behind on the seat, floor and edge of the table. "I better clean this up…go on and get dressed in the meantime; I need to go into town."

Sherlock turned around to walk back to his bedroom, but he didn't miss the sign of the cross that Ruth made, her soft prayer evaporating into the silence as quickly as she uttered it.

* * *

The small town of Flitwick was bustling with activity by the time Ruth and Sherlock arrived later that morning. Despite the slightly overcast skies, people seemed to be just as chipper as if it had been sunny. As they walked past houses to go to different shops, Ruth was constantly stopping to talk to someone, the bark of her hyena-like laugh ringing through the air every couple of minutes. Sherlock slowly moved himself away from her; maybe if he put enough distance between them, people wouldn't think-

"Oi, Vern, you 'ear about Walter's cows?"

Sherlock straightened up, his ears immediately honing in on the conversation of the two elderly men standing by a lamppost. Though cars passed by and sometimes drowned out what they were saying, he managed to get the gist of their conversation.

"You think the police are actually going to come down and have a look at things?" The one with a blue jumper and a grey flat cap asked.

Vern, a bald old man scoffed, a drop of spit flying through the air from his droopy lips. "They're useless, those coppers." He waved his hand. "They're nothing but a bunch of horses'-"

A car drove by and honked, but Sherlock figured that he could fill in the blank of what the old man was saying and slunk back to Ruth's side as she walked away from another neighbor that she had stopped to talk to. He followed her down the pavement, making sure to keep his gaze straight ahead as people walked by and greeted them. He was so caught up in trying to ignore everyone that he made a noise of protest when Ruth tugged on his shirtsleeve to pull him into a small shop. The bell rang as they opened the door. A middle aged man stood behind the small counter and looked up from where he was measuring a piece of fabric.

"Ruth," he said happily as he set down his scissors. "I was wondering about you the other day." His eyes fell to Sherlock and they lit up. "Well, now, I see that you've been playing host to one of your grandchildren."

"This is Sherlock, Chris's youngest son."

"Oh, yes, I can see the resemblance," the man said with a nod and smile. "Name's Anthony, it's good to meet you. I'm glad that you came in today." His gaze moved to Ruth. "I have a new pattern that I think you would really like-"

Sherlock made himself tune out their chatter and laid his chin on the countertop. A part of him grimly hoped that those scissors in Anthony's hand would just magically slip out from his grasp and stab him through the eye. But what if Ruth still made him bake with some sort of pirate eyepatch on his wound? Useless. Maybe if it hit a jugular-

"There you are, Ruth." Anthony handed her the bag. "Come back soon, now."

"Of course I will. Come, Sherly."

Sherlock held back a groan at the nickname being used in front of a stranger and followed Ruth outside again. They stopped along the different shops – the chemist, the bakery, the post office- and finally got to the grocer's. Taking the opportunity for some freedom, Sherlock took a stroll around. Deductions for different patrons hit him from all different directions: _having an affair_, he noted of a woman looking at potatoes. _Recently diagnosed with high blood pressure_ came from the portly man by the bananas._ Pregnant with twins – no, triplets-_

Something collided with his back and he spun around, the insult that he was prepared to throw dying in his throat as his eyes fell to the man that stood before him. He was tall and thin, with curly dark hair and tanned skin that highlighted the deep brown of his tired eyes. He donned a worn brown sweater with oversized black slacks and shoes that were obviously well worn, but taken care of as much as shoes could be.

"My apologies," the man said, his voice soft and gentle amidst the chatter of the shop.

"It's okay." Sherlock stepped out of the way and watched as the man walked past him and outside.

"All done." Ruth came to his side. "I'm sure you're hungry after this busy day we've had."

"Yeah, yeah, so hungry," Sherlock said distractedly as he followed her outside. The man had stopped to speak to a shop owner, people around them shooting looks that the man was obviously trying his best to ignore.

"Nana, who's that?" Sherlock asked with a point. Ruth slapped his finger down with a scowl.

"Pointing's rude." She followed his gaze. "Oh, that's Safi Mahmood," she said as they walked toward the car. "He's a nice young man; very professional, but he's rather withdraw and quiet. I don't think he's well-thought of."

"Most solicitors aren't."

"How did you know- oh, never mind, you notice everything." Ruth waved her hand "But it's not just that."_ It never is,_ Sherlock thought to himself, already knowing where Ruth's thoughts were going. "The Mahmoods are very nice people, I'm sure, but they mostly keep to themselves, especially after the letters." The engine started.

"Letters?"

"Horrid things, they were. They accused the family of all sorts of terrible crimes. The most disturbing part about it is that no one knows who sent them; they stopped after awhile, but I daresay the damage had already been done by the time they did." She sighed. "As much as I love this town and the people, they can be so close-minded with people that look different from them. I hope that'll all change one day."

Sherlock looked out the window as they drove down Greenfield Road back toward the outskirts of town. The Mahmoods, he was sorry to say, could've been the nicest family to grace the whole of England, but that didn't change the fact that they stuck out like a group of sore thumbs and he was sure that no matter what they did, they would never be truly accepted among the people of Flitwick.

* * *

_The person was young, probably between the ages of twenty and thirty. Male, not someone of any kind of royalty. Possible trauma to the parietal, but multiple injuries to the ramus of the mandible-_

"Oh, sweet mother of God!"

Sherlock almost dropped the human skull that he had found in the corner of his bedroom at Ruth's shout. Setting it down on the bed, he walked down the hall and into the kitchen to see his grandmother covering her face with her dirt-covered hands, the back screen door swinging shut from her sudden dash inside.

"I can't…why would…who…" She sat down at the table and sighed deeply, mumbling something lowly under her breath. Though her complete statement was a mystery, one word in it made Sherlock's ear perk up: police. "Don't go out there," she ordered him with a point as she got up from her seat and walked down the hall and into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Don't go out there, she says,_ he thought to himself with a chuckle as he walked outside, the gentle summer breeze blowing some of his dark curls around on his head. The gardening supplies were spread all around the front of the bed of flowers, a large hole gracing a spot right between two sets of bright yellow tulips.

But that wasn't what caught Sherlock's eye and complete attention.

Nailed to an old fence post by its ears was the bloody corpse of an adult rabbit. Sherlock felt the corner of his lip twitch. A quiet little farming town was experiencing what seemed like a madman running around and killing their livestock and even random animals. It seemed that no one, not even the police, could pin down who or what was causing it and why.

_Maybe this little trip to Nana's isn't going to be so boring after all_, Sherlock thought to himself as he turned around to walk inside.


	5. Origins: Chaper Five

**_Origins_**

**_Chapter Five_**

"Ah, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded politely to the portly secretary that had led the way to their destination and she smiled and left his side. The middle-aged man behind the desk stood up and walked around with a hand outstretched.

"Simon Harrison," he said with a nod as they shook hands. "Have a seat. Can I get you any coffee or water?"

"No, thank you," Mycroft said as he sat down. From behind him, the door shut and Simon walked back to his own chair to take a seat.

"So, you're looking for work for after you graduate from uni?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll just tell you right now that we usually don't hire fresh graduates except to work little jobs and be assistants here."

"I understand that," Mycroft said with a nod. "That's to be expected."

"Your credentials are what I would like to see in a potential candidate." Simon picked up a paper to read it over. "Top of your class, perfect grades, numerous academic accomplishments – very nice." He set the paper down. "Tell me, um…"

"Mycroft."

"Yes." Simon leaned forward and folded his hands together. "There are a lot of young people that would kill to be where you're sitting. I'm sure you know that you need to stand out from the rest of the applicants that will come through this office and interview for the same position you're trying to get." Simon's eyebrows rose. "So, Mycroft, give me one good reason why I should hire you and no one else for this job."

As if his mind was like a computer, Mycroft had all of the information that he needed to give Simon the reason he was looking for practically on a perfect list. _Well, it's an interview after all; might as well start this with a boom._He took a deep breath.

"You've lost a substantial amount of weight in the last year." He fought to hide a grin at Simon's bamboozled blink. "It's evident in your suits; they've been tailored over and over again, suggesting that you've also been in some financial straits since your gastric bypass surgery. So if you're having money trouble, how in the world did you afford that trip to the Caribbean to visit your mistress- oh, obvious." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Gambling. Horse racing, is it? How utterly ordinary."

Simon's jaw dropped. "How in the world-"

"You might also want to watch out for that charming secretary of yours; she has a very fast addiction to exhibitionism and bondage. In fact, she was just with the janitor that cleaned your office last night, but oh, dear, I hope she knows that he's cheating on her with her brother."

Simon's eyes practically bulged out of his head. "Carol?!"

"Oh, yes, Carol," Mycroft said with a nod. "You see, Mr. Harrison, the saying that people are open books is true; the problem is that a lot of people don't understand how to read what they're seeing. There are many things that you will never know about the people around you because you simply don't take the time to really look and try to piece together what you've been given. Imagine the things you could learn if you just took the time to really observe."

For a few seconds, all was silent in the office as Simon was obviously struggling with trying to figure out how to respond to such a random, yet enlightening speech. He opened his mouth and shut it again a few times.

"How did you figure all of that out if you don't mind me asking?"

"Deductive reasoning – it would a normal person much longer to make those conclusions that I presented to you, but for me, it takes mere minutes, sometimes seconds."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"Most people haven't, but it's something they quickly put to memory when it happens to them."

Simon laughed. "Yes, I have to say that was all certainly a shock. I'll remember that for awhile."

Mycroft smiled shortly and Simon stood to his feet. "Why don't I take you on a short tour while I have some time?"

Mycroft waited until Simon passed him to let loose a smile in triumph and got to his feet to follow the man down the hall again toward the secretary's desk. He noticed that as they passed by, Simon did a double take to Carol as she typed up a report with furious speed, but kept his silence as they walked out into the main hall.

"You would mostly be working in MI5, but I may have you float in between them and MI6. You seem to be capable of learning both sides."

"Extremely capable."

Simon smiled. "Civil servant is the term that we use for our employees and that title embodies a lot of different things. I trust that in due time, you'll learn just where you fit in that spectrum."

"As long as it doesn't require being out in the field." Mycroft sneered. "Leg work isn't my forte."

"If you do better in the office, then we'll certainly use you here. Might as well play to your natural strengths if we're going to make the most of you. But I would encourage you not to completely turn down field work. You could brag to your dates that you're a real life James Bond." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "James Bond is considered a civil servant, too, Mr. Holmes, so you technically wouldn't be lying." Simon said with a chuckle as he opened a door to an office. "Shall we?"

With a look around his surroundings one last time, Mycroft followed Simon into the spacious office. _Yes_, he thought to himself, _this job will certainly suit me just fine._

* * *

"Linda Gregory."

The name made Linda pause as she was looking over the piles of tomatoes in the produce section of the grocer's. Hearing her maiden name after all that time was so odd – who in the world still remembered her by that? She straightened up and turned around, a smile spreading across her face as the person who called her chuckled.

"Roger Parrington," she said as she set the tomato in her hand down. His brown eyes seemed to twinkle under the dull light of the shop.

"My goodness, it's been ages since we last saw each other. Over twenty five years if I'm not mistaken" Roger closed the gap between them, towering over her small stature. "How have you been?"

"I've been well. How about you?"

"Oh, fine, I suppose." Roger shrugged. "Working seventy hour weeks in investment banking takes its toll on your after a while."

"Does it now? My interest with the banking world was a brief affair; I tried working in a bank for a few months, but in the end teaching suited me best."

Roger chuckled. "Oh, yes, I remember all those long nights back in uni where you were tutoring half the class." He winked at her scowl.

"You all wouldn't have passed those tests if it weren't for me."

"So modest about your contribution to our success," he said with another warm chuckle. "So what happened to you after you left so suddenly?" A pang at the memory of Linda being almost brutally torn away from the university because her father had caught her dating Chris behind his back went through her, but she quickly shook it off.

"I went back for the next term, it was all just a little misunderstanding between my parents and I. I got married to the boy I was dating and ended up double majoring."

"Did you?" Roger look surprised. "I left for Oxford shortly after the term ended. I'm sorry, I don't remember the boy's name that you were with."

"Chris Holmes."

"Chris, Chris- oh, was he a writer or poet of sorts?" Linda nodded. "Yes, I remember him now, I think we had a class together at one point. He was an interesting fellow, though he was little odd back then."

Linda laughed. "Well, so was I; that's why we decided it would be best to just marry each other and contain all that strangeness between us."

"Well, that's good I guess." Roger smiled. "Do you have children?"

"Two sons." Linda pulled out a little mini photo album from her purse and showed a picture from the previous Christmas to him, who nodded and made a noise of approval.

"Good looking kids you've got there. The younger one looks just like you."

"It's a joke within the family to ask Chris where he was when Sherlock was being made," Linda replied with a chuckle.

"Sherlock? That's uh, an interesting name."

"The older one is Mycroft. Believe me," she said flatly in response to his expression. "I've gotten many strange looks for their names, it doesn't hurt my feelings in the slightest."

"I didn't say a word. So did they inherit the genius side of the family?"

"Yes." She sighed as she put the album back. "I thought raising Mike was going to be a challenge, but Sherlock puts a whole new spin on the words 'child-rearing'."

"But you seemed to have done a good job with them," Roger said. "They looked like they turned out well."

"I can only hope so."

They shared a laugh. "Well, listen, I better be off. It was nice to see you again, Linda." He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Hopefully we'll talk again soon."

"Yes, hopefully." She watched him walk off toward the check out and sighed. It was always interesting for her to see classmates from uni; most of them, she realized in retrospect, weren't happy with how their lives turned out. And Roger was no different – he was obviously unhappy, and she could've sworn that he was looking a little jealous when she showed him the picture of the boys. _I guess Chris and I just got lucky in the end_, she thought to herself as she turned around to continue her shopping.


	6. Origins: Chapter Six

**Origins**

**Chapter Six**

"Who in the world would do such a thing?"

With a hand to her mouth, Ruth watched out the window to the garden as a constable studied the dead rabbit and wrote on a pad of paper. Another constable lazily wandered around by the back porch, his eyes barely staying on one plot of ground and Sherlock felt his jaw ache from grinding his teeth so hard. _Idiots. Blundering idiots._ A portly gentleman by the title of Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Bennett walked up the porch stairs and opened the screen door. His almost pure white mustache billowed as he blew out a breath.

"Well, Ruth, I wish I had more news to soothe your worries, but I have to say, there isn't much here that we can go on-"

"Oh, Lord- and you call yourselves a police force."

Both DCI Bennett and Ruth looked to Sherlock in mild surprise. "Sherlock, mind yourself-" she started, but Sherlock stormed past them all and outside into the yard, ignoring the protests from the rest of the constables standing around.

"Young man, this scene must be left preserved-"

"Which would be plausible, if you all hadn't been walking around like a herd of bull in a china shop," Sherlock snapped. Ignoring the puzzled murmurs in response to his outburst, he began to scan the ground, being careful of where he set his steps. "No heavier than 175 pounds, size ten shoe, six feet five or so in height-"

"Young man-"

"The tread isn't British-"

"Stop right there!"

Sherlock obediently stopped in his tracks, took an extremely slow, deep breath through his nose and turned around to face the house again. The DCI's mustache twitched as he and the boy stared at each other. "Now." DCI Bennett cleared his throat. "I'm going to ask you again to leave the scene alone."

"As long as you and your men promise to watch your step from now on," Sherlock replied levelly.

"Sherlock," Ruth snapped.

"Is that a request?"

"If you want to think of it that way."

Chief Constable Bennett held up his hand as one of the constables stepped up to say something. "Fair enough," he said with serious stare after a few seconds. "We're done here at any rate."

With a glance of triumph to the shocked constables, Sherlock walked back up the porch steps and stood next to Ruth. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand twitch and he thanked whoever was watching that there were people around so that she was forced to restrain herself from lashing out at him.

"As I was saying, I'll be in touch, Ruth," Chief Constable Bennett said as he walked down the stairs to join his men. "Don't worry, we'll find out who did this. Trust me."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he and Ruth watched everyone walk around the house and leave down the hillside. As soon as all was quiet, Ruth sighed and rubbed her temples. "I can't believe you, I just can't believe you."

Sherlock sputtered. "What, I didn't do anything wrong-!"

"Your mother needs a strict talking to about how to raise a child with manners." They walked back into the house. "Talking to the police as though they're daft-"

"They are-"

Ruth turned around. "Sherlock-"

"Oh, but don't mind the fact that they barely paid attention the whole time they were here."

"They're the police-"

"And for some _unfathomable_ reason, I seem to doubt that they know what the hell they're doing-"

"Oh, and you do?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it again. "I'm sure I know more than they do," he finally said after a few seconds. Ruth huffed and walked into the kitchen.

"You know, as much as you would like to believe that you're all grown up and can act however you please, you're still very immature."

Sherlock felt his blood boil. "I have more maturity in my pinkie toe than most people in this entire town!"

"I'm done talking to you." Ruth pulled out the large soup pot from the cabinet. "Come back and talk to me when you calm down." She waved her hand to dismiss him and Sherlock spun around, making sure to stomp so loud that furniture shook as he passed. He slammed the bedroom door behind him and flopped down on the bed. It only took a few seconds of being still for him to feel the effects of his stomping and he hissed out a string of curses as his knees and shins began to burn and ache. Curling up on his side to hug his knees, Sherlock glared at the wall. His mind began to concoct all sort of experiments that he would pull when he got back home just to get on his mother's nerves. That would teach her to send him away just because she felt like it. If she didn't want him gone then, she would after he was done with her.

_I'll make her pay – no, I'll make them __**both **__pay for this._

He sleepily sighed and reached to pull the quilt over himself. _But first, I need to sleep,_ he thought to himself as the bed enveloped him in comfort. _Then I'll make them pay._

* * *

"Forgive me, sir, but I thought the agreement was that I wouldn't have to do field work."

Simon looked from the paperwork he was signing to Mycroft. "Well, you may be observant, but your memory could use some tweaking. I said that if we found you more useful in the office, then you would stay there. Until then-" he nodded toward an empty seat. "Have a seat."

Mycroft pursed his lips and moved to sit down, his hands moving to pose in a steeple position under his chin. Simon tossed his pen aside and muttered as he went through a pile of files on his desk.

"The assignment will be simple, I promise." Simon pulled out a rather thick file. "Know anything about banking?"

"Of course," Mycroft said.

Simon scoffed. "Maybe the better question would be is there anything you don't know. All right, so-" he pointed to a photo of a middle-age gentleman with dark hair and sunglasses, "I'm assigning you to a group of agents from MI5 to track this man." Mycroft leaned forward to study the photo. "Roger Parrington. He's the CEO of one of the largest banks in Europe, has more money than what one human being would know what to do with. Word is he's been…mishandling some funds and funneling them into different accounts overseas. He's very close to being handed over to the local force, but there's some gaps in his activities that we want to investigate first."

Mycroft sat back and nodded. "All right then."

"Well, I'm sure you would- oh…oh wait, you're not…saying no."

Mycroft shrugged. "You said it yourself: it's simple and I have to agree, it is."

"Oh. Well-well, good then. Um, you'll meet with the rest of the agents on Monday." Simon shut the file and tucked it back into the pile. "So any grand plans for the weekend?"

"I was actually thinking of going to visit my parents in Cambridge."

"Oh really? You…your…_your_ parents?"

A saccharine smile spread across Mycroft's face. "Surely you weren't under the impression that I was born from a test tube, sir."

Simon barked out a laugh but quickly sobered. "Have a restful weekend, Mycroft. Come back to Monday prepared to go into the field."

Mycroft took his leave and as he walked out of the office, the three words in Parrington's file that caught his immediate attention floated before his eyes. _University of Bristol_. _Seemingly harmless_, he thought to himself as he straightened the cuff on his shirt. But coupled with a snippet of the conversation that he had with Mummy a few days prior, the information suddenly took on a whole new light. _Who needs a team of people when only one person will have the answer?_ He pushed the down button on the lift and stood back to wait.

Yes, it would be good to visit Mummy and Daddy for the weekend. Hopefully, for once, they could finally prove themselves useful.

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes, the bedroom was dark and cool with night. At some point, he had moved to lie at the opposite end of the bed and he raised his head to listen for any sign of noise. A bark of shrieking laughter made his ears ring and as the ringing died, a rich deep vibration of a chuckle followed it. He blinked and sat up, shaking his head to clear any lingering grogginess. Opening the bedroom door, he walked down the hallway toward the sitting room.

"…I wasn't sure about what to say when she said that," a male voice said, his voice growing louder and louder. "I have never had a woman become that bold with me, especially at ninety-one –" At Sherlock stopping by the kitchen entrance, Ruth looked away from her guest and clapped her hands together.

"Oh, there you are, sleepyhead! I'm sure you must be so hungry, you slept all afternoon." She quickly got up and the man that was sitting at the table smiled politely, his eyes almost completely obscured by his bangs.

"So this must be that ornery grandson I've heard so much about."

"He's the ringleader of the entire group of them," Ruth replied as she bustled to make Sherlock a plate of food. "Sherly, you remember this gentleman don't you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and walked into the kitchen, extending his hand to the man. "Of course I do. Nice to see you again, Mr. Mahmood."

"Please call me Safi." They shook hands. "Mr. Mahmood is my father."

"By the way, how is your father, dear?" Ruth asked. "Heard he was quite ill a few weeks ago."

"Oh, fine, thank you for asking. He's still feeling somewhat under the weather, but at least he's up and about tending to duties around town."

"Well, something is better than nothing." Ruth set a plate of cottage pie down on the table. "Oh, that reminds me, the book you came for is in my room. Be back in a moment with it." She bustled off and Sherlock picked up his fork to pick at his food. Safi folded his hands onto the table and cleared his throat.

"So, are you enjoying your stay with Ruth?"

"…you could say that."

Safi chuckled. "She's a nice woman, your grandmother."

"When she's not holding a gun to your head to help her bake cookies," Sherlock replied as he stuffed his mouth full of cottage pie.

"Her cookies are some of the best I've ever had, honestly. You help her bake them?"

"Like I said-" Sherlock made the shape of a gun with his hand and held it up to his head, which made Safi laugh. "But she also can't portion ingredients properly, so I suppose my helping her is a way of practicing my eye for measuring."

"You must be interested in science."

"Chemistry, specifically."

"Ah. Well, you know what they say: every good chemist began in his grandmother's kitchen helping her bake cookies."

"Are you two talking about me?" Ruth called from down the hall as they shared a chuckle.

"Not at all, Ruth." Safi slowly stood to his feet and without looking to Sherlock, he moved to take the worn book from Ruth's hands. "I'll be sure to bring this back right away."

"Oh, take your time with it, dear. Don't forget your cookies, now. And make sure to get that step at your office looked at." She pointed to his ankle.

"Yes, ma'am, I will." He nodded to Sherlock. "It was nice to meet you." As soon as Safi left, Sherlock set down his fork and pursed his lips. A faulty step was hardly the reason as to why Safi was limping. _Patches of dirt crushed on his sweater and pants, careful to laugh only so hard, shaky grip, light bruises on his fingers and hands…_

Someone had been throwing stones at him - rather large stones, at that. And Sherlock had a feeling that it wasn't the first time that it happened…and that it would be the last time. With a thoughtful _hmph_, Sherlock began to eat again. Maybe it would be worth getting to know Safi a little better with the time left at Nana's.

After all, his mind couldn't stand to be occupied with animal maiming all the time.


End file.
